


In His Maps

by baggvinshield



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Ace bagginshield, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Banter, Fluff, Laketown, Light Angst, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Old Age, Post-Battle of Five Armies, References to Lord of the Rings, Traveling, can i even write bagginshield without at least some angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-05-01 17:40:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5214782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baggvinshield/pseuds/baggvinshield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><br/>The world out there, and in his maps.<br/>(Bilbo and Thorin, + traveling.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. North & East

**Author's Note:**

> Formatting inspired by [Atlas](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5181365) by filiandkiliheirsofdurin - ya'll should go read that fic, it's a beauty. 
> 
> This fic is not Beta read (as usual) so any mistakes are my own.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**North;**

_Without being hunted, captured, or otherwise delayed, the journey from Bag End to Laketown might take only four months._

 

Thorin and Bilbo find the city on the lake much changed from when first they saw it together, years ago. The dragon’s destruction was almost absolute, but many houses and places of commerce were rebuilt, and life has returned there. Barges run to and fro, carrying goods from the Elves across the water to the ports of Esgaroth and Erebor.

The sun shines clearly, and even this far northward the summer day is warm and welcoming.

“I wonder what the others will think of our surprise visit,” Bilbo muses. He and Thorin are seated close together on a small dock attached to the inn they are staying in, overlooking the lake and facing the Lonely Mountain. Bilbo wonders if they aren’t very close to where they stood together years ago, on different wooden planks over the same lake, looking at the mountain together. That night he had asked Thorin to tell him about his home, and was working up the courage to face the impossible task of stealing from a dragon.

Thorin snorts in response. “I doubt much that they’ll be surprised. Although, my sister will likely be wrathful. She would have sent a guard for us if we’d sent word.”

Bilbo chuckles. “Dis will have some right to be cross, then. I’ll leave you to deal with her.”

Thorin sticks his leg out and pushes with his toes at Bilbo’s bare calf. “Why me? She is practically your, what term do you use, sister-in-law?”

Huffing in annoyance and folding his arms across his chest, Bilbo replies, “And I have enough relatives to deal with back in the Shire, thank you very much. I’ll not take on yours as well, especially not the terrifying ones.”

Thorin laughs openly now. “Fine, fine,” he says, “but if she bests me in combat for the mistake of risking both our hides without an armed guard, you must at least make sure my funeral is appropriately grand.”

“But of course. As grand as befits you.”

Bilbo watches fondly as Thorin throws his head back and laughs some more.

Later that night, laying in their shared bed, Bilbo turns his head to look at Thorin and says, “Is it strange, to see it again?”

Thorin is on his back looking up at the ceiling, and though he doesn’t look at Bilbo, his arm tightens around him fractionally.

“Yes, and no.”

Bilbo smiles, soft and slow. “Not much of an answer from an old wind-bag.”

Thorin looks at him now with an amused expression, long familiar with this game. “I might tell you that your sharp tongue is half the reason your relatives are so difficult to deal with, but - oof!” Years of battle didn’t prepare Thorin for Bilbo to shift and turn so quickly, and grab up a pillow to drop onto his face.

“Master Baggins?” Thorin’s voice is muffled.

“Will you answer my question?”

Bilbo feels rather than sees Thorin’s nod, and he removes the offending pillow. Thorin fairly sneers at him, but Bilbo only smiles sweetly in triumph.

“It is strange,” Thorin says after Bilbo has settled back against his side. “But not for the reasons you may think. I spent many long years missing Erebor. But sometimes now, I think…”

A moment stretches.

“Yes?” Bilbo asks quietly.

Thorin sighs, turns to look at him. He reaches out and smoothes Bilbo’s greying curls away from his forehead.

“I think I missed Erebor more for what it had been to me in my youth. And that, growing older, I would have missed that, anyway. Then the desire to take it back from the dragon became more about making sure he didn’t have it, and that my people did, rather than having it for my own. For me,” and Thorin’s voice drops near to a whisper, “there are many ghosts there, if such things exist. Many dark and dreary memories; many losses.”

Bilbo nods slowly. “So you mean that, you never actively desired the throne?”

Thorin’s brow furrows and he pauses. “No,” he says after a moment. “Truthfully, I never desired it - being king. Only thought it was something I must do.”

Bilbo hums and considers that. Then leans up to plant a kiss on Thorin’s cheek. The Dwarf looks at him, questioning and fond.

“Well then,” Bilbo declares, settling back and closing his eyes. “It seems to have all turned out for the best, in that case.”

Thorin says nothing, and Bilbo begins to wonder if he may have actually managed to offend the old Dwarf. But then Thorin stirs, turns toward him and moves closer under the light blanket they share, presses against Bilbo’s side and breathes into his hair.

“I believe it has after all,” he says quietly, and his breath is warm on Bilbo’s forehead.

They speak no more that night, settling for sleep instead; for tomorrow they will leave Laketown and make for the Lonely Mountain.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

**East;**

_It might have happened that on the day Thorin defeated Azog the Defiler on Raven Hill, avenging and saving his line with one well-aimed blow, it took Bilbo less than an hour to travel from the walls of Dale to the top of the Hill, carrying with him a much needed warning._

 

Bilbo wakes on the cold ground, utterly disoriented. The first thing he is aware of is the sky above him, white and grey with gently falling snow, and full of dark shapes, flying like shadows against the bright backdrop.

“The Eagles,” he whispers. And then realizes where he is.

He springs to his feet, stumbles for moment with the sudden movement, and steadies himself enough to grasp his little sword and get to the wall. He looks down across the ice, and his heart slows its frantic beating.

He sees Thorin climbing off of the Pale Orc and pulling his sword free of its chest in one motion, and Bilbo nearly chokes on his relief. Thorin turns his back on Azog’s still body (he is dead then, Bilbo knows), and walks towards to edge of the frozen river, looks down on the valley and the battle below them. Bilbo takes deep breaths, in and out.

But suddenly Thorin staggers, goes down on one knee, and Bilbo jerks into motion.

By the time he reaches Thorin where he still kneels on the ice, he can see that he is breathing heavily; panting, even.

“Bilbo.” Thorin’s voice is strained, and his eyes dart up and down Bilbo’s body, lingering on his bloodied forehead. “You’re alive. I was afraid…”

Bilbo kneels down next to him, tries to coax him into a sitting position. “Where are you hurt?”

“The others,” Thorin goes on, “Dwalin, my nephews…”

“Shh, shh.”

“Thorin!” A voice, unmistakably Dwalin’s, calls from behind Bilbo, and he sees Thorin close his eyes in visible relief.

Dwalin rushes over, his axe clattering on the ice when he thrusts it down and takes Thorin by the shoulders.

“Fili, Kili,” Thorin says.

“I saw them fighting in the tower,” Dwalin answers immediately.

“Go to them.”

Dwalin’s expression hardens. “You’re wounded.”

“I’m fine,” Thorin says, just as Bilbo says, “I’ll stay with him.”

Bilbo adds quickly, “Thorin, sit down,” and finally the Dwarf complies, breathing a bit shallowly and clearly favoring his left side. Thorin looks up into Dwalin's face.

“Dwalin.”

The warrior stands to his full height, takes up his axe again. He nods once, and gives Bilbo a meaningful look before turning and racing towards the tower.

“Let me look at this,” Bilbo says, his full attention on Thorin now, on wounds he cannot see. He hands fumble and hover over a tear in Thorin’s light armor, unsure how to proceed. Thorin’s hand reaches and takes hold of Bilbo’s.

“It’s nothing,” he says. “Bilbo, I’m glad you’re here, but you should leave. There may be more-”

“Shh,” Bilbo repeats. “I’m not going anywhere, Thorin. I’m not going to leave you.”

“I would take back my words and my deeds at the gate,” Thorin goes on, quietly, urgently. “I am so sorry. I have led you into such peril.”

Thorin’s breathing is becoming more shallow; his eyes drift closed and he sways a little where he sits.

“Thorin!” Bilbo grabs his shoulders to steady him and shakes him gently. “Thorin, stay with me.” But Thorin slips out of Bilbo’s grasp and falls backwards, laying flat on the ice.

“Thorin!”

Bilbo’s grabs fistfuls of Thorin’s shirts and shakes, frantic, desperate.

Thorin’s eyes open again, he turns to look at Bilbo and he smiles. Some unwelcome and sharp feeling rises in Bilbo’s throat just as he sags in relief.

“Forgive me,” Thorin whispers, his hand finding Bilbo’s once more. “I was too blind to see. You did as only a true friend would have.”

“No,” Bilbo says, because he thinks he is beginning to understand something, and what that is is too terrible to allow.

Gripping Thorin’s hand hard with both of his, he says, “I am glad to have shared in all of it, Thorin. It is far more than any Baggins deserves.”

Thorin’s surprised look turns to fondness, and he smiles, and it is too warm and beautiful for Bilbo to bear.

“Farewell, Master Burglar.”

“No,” Bilbo interrupts. “No, I’ll have none of that. You’re going to live. Thorin, look,” and when Bilbo points skyward, Thorin’s eyes follow the movement of his hand.

“The Eagles are here.”

And Bilbo jumps to his feet and starts shouting and calling and waving his arms, calling for help, that the King is wounded.

When a great Eagle descends and lands in a flurry of wind and snow on the ice, Thorin is unconscious but still breathing.

Dwalin emerges from the tower moments after the Eagle lifts Thorin in its taloned feet, leaving behind him on the ice a pool of dark blood that Bilbo had not been able to see before. Fili follows close behind Dwalin, supporting Kili, who limps, but looks otherwise unharmed.

“Will he be alright?” Fili asks when Bilbo comes to join their small group, watching the Eagle make for Dale.

The battlefield is in chaos, and Bilbo thinks he hears the roar of a great bear over the din of shouts and cries and the screeches of the Eagles.

Bilbo sighs.

“I believe he will be, with Gandalf's aid.”

Another moment of silence stretches between the four of them, Kili’s labored breathing the loudest sound on the Hill, and Bilbo realizes for the first time that they are alone there; their enemies are vanquished.

They all watch the battlefield, relief and renewed hope kindled as it becomes clearer and clearer that the orc army is failing.

“Well then,” Dwalin says, breaking the spell. “He’ll be asking for you when he wakes. We’d best get a move on.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. South & West

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

**South;**

_Many decades after the Battle of the Five Armies, Bilbo and Thorin find themselves once again the guests of Lord Elrond, a journey that, even at Bilbo’s advanced age, might have taken them only two months._

 

Bilbo sits on a bench in one of the Elves’ many gardens. It is spring, and there is no better time to appreciate the lands of Imladris; and Bilbo is very fond of a quiet spot in a lovely garden. Many of the flowers are in full bloom, and all around him are pinks and violets, vibrant greens and deep blues, pastels and even golden hues. Bilbo’s own hair is nearly all white now, making him quite easy to spot in all the bright colors of the landscape.

He hears the unmistakable approach of Dwarven boots, though the pace has certainly slowed over the years, and he smiles.

“You’re finally up and out of bed, I see. Missed first and second breakfast entirely, you know - did you manage to catch tea?”

Thorin returns his smile and lowers himself to the bench, sitting close enough for their knees to knock together.

“I will likely never manage to adapt to your strange Hobbit-ish meal schedule.”

Bilbo chuckles and pats at Thorin’s hand, which turns palm-up and gently clasps his.

Their hands, always so different for their size alone, now have many more comparisons. Bilbo’s small hand looks wrinkled and frail in contrast to Thorin’s, which is larger and only slightly-less wrinkled, though still calloused and deeply scarred in places, still thick and strong.

“You did rightly.” Thorin breaks their peaceful quiet. He says softly, “It was time to leave it behind, Bilbo.”

Bilbo sighs deeply, feels an unnameable ache in his chest. “I know,” he whispers. “And yet… it is very hard. It was mine for a long time. And truth be told… I worry for him, for Frodo.”

Thorin stiffens a little beside him, grips his hand a little tighter. “He will make it,” he says, so quietly Bilbo almost has to strain to hear him. “Lord Elrond, for all his many faults, can see many things that you and I cannot. If he says that Frodo is on his way here, and is safe with a friend, then I am inclined to believe him.”

Bilbo cannot help the laugh that escapes his throat, even as his eyes sting with hot tears.

“That is high praise for Lord Elrond, indeed!” Bilbo takes their joined hands and tugs, urging Thorin to sit a bit closer. “I shall have to tell him of his new admirer - in fact, he may want that glowing review inscribed somewhere, in a history book or on a piece of art, perhaps.”

Thorin humphs and shrugs, not meeting Bilbo’s amused gaze. “Well,” is all he says.

Bilbo laughs again and leans against Thorin’s side; he moves a great handful of Thorin’s hair, mostly silver now and only streaked with dark brown, out of his way so that he might drop his head to Thorin’s shoulder.

They sit together this way for some time, until Bilbo has an idea that makes his lips curl in a mischievous smile.

“Do you remember the fountain,” he asks, lifting his head.

Thorin frowns, the deep lines around his mouth making it look more like a comical pout. “There are many fountains here, Bilbo.”

Bilbo tisks. “Yes,” he says, “but do you remember the one we all, er, made use of? The first time we came here?”

Thorin smiles in return now, and Bilbo thinks that it looks positively boyish, like Thorin must have looked so long ago in his youth when he was about to do something he knew he oughtn't.

“Aye,” he says. “I remember that one. What of it?”

“Well, as I recall… it was a rather nice bath we all had.”

“And as I recall,” Thorin says, standing and pulling Bilbo up with him, “a certain Elf Lord was less than impressed with our very Dwarfish choice of washroom. Last one in?”

Bilbo laughs and cuts away from Thorin, surprising him with his quickness. “Last one in makes the bed for a month!”

Thorin doesn’t move for a moment, watches Bilbo rush off in the direction of said fountain, his slightly-bent figure walking rather quickly on large Hobbit feet. Then he barks out a laugh, calls, “Cheat!” and follows after.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

**West;**   

_Some years after the Battle, it might have taken Thorin and Bilbo six months to journey from Erebor to the Shire, with time allowed for delays at the houses of Beorn and Elrond._

 

They departed Bree at daybreak, though whether the sun had truly risen neither could say for sure due to the dark storm clouds, and Thorin thought begrudgingly that it must always rain so in Bree.

But the weather turned fairer as the morning went on and their ponies carried them closer to the borders of the Shire.

“You must be glad,” Thorin said as Bilbo handed him a bowl of lunch - stew of fresh carrots and dried meats. They’d halted and set about getting a cooking fire started, and had hardly spoken since, each going about their tasks.

“Glad?” Bilbo spoke around a mouthful of stew.

“To be going home.”

Bilbo shrugged, and wouldn’t be deterred from his meal by Thorin’s curiosity.  

Once finished eating his (rather excellent, if truth be told) stew, Bilbo sat with his back to a tree and lit his pipe.

“I am glad,” he said finally. “Erebor was a beautiful place, and no mistake. And it was nice to be useful, especially knowing how easily you particular group of Dwarves can manage to get things wrong.”

Thorin ducked his chin to hide his smile; no sense needlessly encouraging Bilbo’s teasing.

“I think I shall miss the busyness of it all. Always something to do, somewhere to go, things that needed tending. But, politics and intrigue does get tiresome. And neither one of us is getting any younger.”

“Aye, truly.”

“And I’ll be grateful for some quiet. Perhaps,” Bilbo said, chewing on the stem of his pipe thoughtfully, “I’ll even be able to write my book.”

Thorin came and sat by him, back pressed to the trunk of the tree and his shoulder pressed to Bilbo’s.

“The story of the Quest,” Thorin said. “And how will I feature in such a tale, I wonder?”

Bilbo heard in Thorin’s voice a note of self-recrimination. “Very splendidly, I should think. Though,” and Bilbo reached out to put his fingers in Thorin’s long, dark beard, “I think you’ll have a full beard in the story. That seems to be quite important to your folk.”

Thorin smiled, and leaned in closer to Bilbo’s touch. “Whatever you write,” he said conspiratorially, “I’ve no doubt it will contain not a small amount of fiction. Or at very least, be lacking in a certain amount of truth.”

Bilbo pulled his hand back and gave him a reproachful look.

“I’ll be sure to tell only the necessary parts,” he said with a sniff, “and if you don’t watch it, the great Thorin Oakenshield might just wind up dead at the end of it all.”

Thorin laughed at that, and caught Bilbo’s hand, bringing it to his mouth to kiss his palm. “Then I’ll keep my literary criticisms to myself.”  
  


Later that day, Thorin called their ponies to a halt on the borders of the Shire.

“Have you still got it with you?” Thorin asked, looking at Bilbo with a grin.

Bilbo smiled back, and reached into his pocket. He retrieved a small leafy twig - a cutting from a raspberry bush in Beorn’s garden, the fruit of which had been especially delicious, and had produced a jam that Thorin had grown positively fond of during their stay - and Bilbo said, “Yes, right here.”

“Good,” Thorin replied. He smiled and turned his pony onward.

“Then let’s go home.”

 

  
  
  
  
_Many, many years after that, it might have been the case that it took them only a few weeks to travel from Rivendell by wagon to the Western shore, to a ship that would carry them onward to lands neither had ever seen, and to their final journey together - from which neither would ever return._   

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Hope you all enjoyed it! <3

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  lol tfw you go to bed and have to get back up in the middle of the night to write because a fic won't leave you alone :) bless :)


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